


Death Itself

by knubbler



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Eldritch!Charles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knubbler/pseuds/knubbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[during/post-renovationklok] Charles is back from the dead, but Pickles feels that something is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Itself

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry i simply do not feel like fixing all the lapslock in this please pretend it is written in real ppl english

pickles knows he’s fucking out of his mind on adrenaline and a liter of jameson, but he’s also sure they played a damn good show, and he’s giddy as the band makes their way back to cornickelson’s box seat. 

they’re all elated, even though none of them are willing to admit it. their manager’s sudden return from death seems to have lifted a weight from their shoulders that’s been present for nearly nine months. they enter the room and pickles’ stomach drops when he only sees a handful of klokateers and CMR employees, and for a fleeting moment he wonders if ofdensen’s return was real. 

“where’s charles?” nathan growls before pickles can speak.

“the next room, my lord, discussing the contract with mr. cornickelson,” 

he said he’d be here when we got back, says a petulant voice in pickles’ head. nathan takes a seat and glares at cornickelson’s people, and one by one the rest of the band does the same. pickles is more inclined to pace, idly twirling a drumstick, until murderface snaps, “pickles, fucking sit down or go get charles, you’re pissing me off.” pickles knows better than to pick a fight with william, so he shrugs and meanders down the bright, fluorescent corridor. 

he’s about to knock on the door, but at the last moment he leans against the doorjamb and lets out a little huff of air. this is weird, he thinks. right? he’s back from the dead. that’s weird as fuck. what do you say to a dead man? he swings his arms back and forth for a moment before deciding that he is making the situation way gayer than it needs to be, and turns to knock on the door. his knuckles rap twice before something slams into the door from the other side with a sickening thud and pickles jumps back, his heart in his throat. there’s a moment or two of silence before he calls charles’ name. there’s no answer and pickles frowns and opens the door. 

the first thing he takes in is the blood, sprayed on the walls and spreading in a thick pool across the floor. then there’s cornickelson. or most of him, contorted on the ground with his limbs at odd angles. standing over him, tugging the hem of his jacket straight, is charles, very much in one piece. in fact, pickles doesn’t see any blood on him at all, save the puddle that’s likely soaking through the bottoms of his oxfords.

“ah. pickles,” he says calmly. “the show went well?”

“yeah,” says pickles. “uh, fine.” charles places a finger to his earpiece and summons several klokateers to the conference room.

“so uh. is that…?” he trails off rhetorically, looking for an explanation.

“had to be done.” charles says shortly. “this, ah, acting out isn’t doing his father’s health any good. nor is it beneficial to dethklok, as we’ve seen tonight. i would rather you keep this between us, though. no need to worry the boys.” charles steps delicately over cornickelson’s remains and pickles gets the feeling that he should be glad he’s pretty wasted, otherwise he might find himself mightily fucking unsettled right now.  
charles seems to sense this as he exits the room. “i hope you’re not alarmed,” he says, brushing a finger against the worn elastic of pickles’ wristband. pickles shakes his head; their staff gets dismembered on a daily basis. what he’s not used to is when the dismembering is seemingly carried out by their mousy, scrupulous, recently deceased lawyer. or when said lawyer makes physical contact with him.

the klokateers have arrived and immediately set to work clearing away the mess in the conference room. charles sighs and gives pickles a small smile. “let’s go. lots of work to do if we’re going to get things back to normal.” he pulls his glasses from a pocket inside his jacket and carefully slips them on over the scar near his eye. pickles follows him down the hall silently. it’s strange; he knows how much he drank, and he didn’t think he was this far gone, but charles’ outline is blurring slightly. 

 

several days pass, and one very unsatisfactory explanation later, pickles is still at a loss as to how charles is alive and scurrying around mordhaus with handfuls of papers and blueprints. frankly, it’s unsettling, after all the time pickles has spent berating himself for forgetting charles was gone, the months of conditioning himself not to expect charles heading the next band meeting or backstage at the next show. he’s jumped several times catching a glimpse of charles overseeing the renovations, and he’s caught toki doing the same thing. 

“i amn’ts scared of him,” he says defensively. “he just keeps scarings me.” pickles knows what he means.

charles shows up to the next band meeting looking considerably peakier than the last time pickles laid eyes on him, but he apologizes and chalks it up to long hours negotiating with the label, the klokateers’ labor union and the extra staff they’ve taken on for the renovation, among others. murderface takes this as a subtle jab at their managerial prowess and the meeting descends into shouting as usual. pickles would almost be comforted by the familiarity if it weren’t for the way charles is massaging his temples and generally looking like hell.

that night, pickles consults a bottle of vodka and determines that there’s nothing stopping him from simply talking to charles rather than indirectly fretting over him, and he finds himself marching over to the administrative wing. charles’ office door is open so pickles walks right in. charles is perched on the front of his desk, legs crossed at the ankles, with a glass of brandy and a few last-minute spreadsheets. he hears pickles come in and pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

“pickles. did you need something?”

“no,” says pickles absentmindedly, wandering in. he hasn’t been in this area of mordhaus for almost nine months, but the room still seems so familiar. he imagines this is what it’s like returning to your childhood home after moving away. it smells a bit musty from disuse, and there’s a film of dust on the glass cases of antique weaponry. he feels charles’ eyes on the back of his head and turns to give him a good look.

“are you okay, dude?” pickles asks, and charles smiles warily.

“it’s just brandy, pickles. you’re welcome to a glass.”

“i—yeah, all right,” pickles crosses to charles’ desk and pours himself a drink. he stares out the window contemplatively and murmurs, “you know what i’m talkin’ about, though.” charles flushes and takes a long sip of liquor. 

“i’ve been a bit under the weather,” he admits eventually. “must’ve picked something up somewhere.”

“don’t gimme that bullshit, you’ve been fuckin’ weird ever since you came back.” pickles downs his drink in one go and smirks as charles wrinkles his nose. 

“that brandy’s older than you are,” he comments drily. pickles draws closer, edging his hips between charles’ knees. 

“real age or press age?” charles looks at him coolly, setting his glass aside. pickles doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to his lawyer before. he knows under ordinary circumstances charles would have pushed him away by now, but he’s relaxed and the brandy makes him tolerant. 

“it’s weird havin’ you back here,” he says softly. “i can’t let myself get used to it.” charles hesitates for a moment, then takes one of pickles’  
hands.  
“i’m not going anywhere.”

“your scar,” pickles says suddenly, and charles blinks. “that scar, by your eye, what happened to it?” charles unconsciously touches his temple. 

“did you get it fixed or somethin’?” pickles demands, slapping charles’ hand away, but he realizes there are no marks on charles’ skin, cosmetic or otherwise. “what…what in the fuck is goin’ on with you?” pickles whispers.

“i—“ charles pauses and clears his throat. “nothing’s going on. i’m fine, pickles. i don’t want you worrying about me.” 

“….are you sure? ‘cause you’re kinda startin’ to scare me,” 

“don’t,” charles says imploringly. “don’t be scared of me.” pickles leans in and tries to peer into charles’ eyes—greener than he remembers—but he’s as unreadable as always. he realizes charles’ hand is still on his and that they’re very close and that there was another reason he came here tonight. 

“you’re back for good?” pickles’ voice sounds more uneasy than he would have liked it to. he feels charles curl a hand around the small of his back.

“pickles,” he smiles, “death itself couldn’t keep me away.” 

pickles blinks and they’re kissing, charles wrapping his legs around pickles and pulling him closer, sighing as pickles slips his fingers around the back of his neck. pickles nearly pushes charles over but he grabs pickles’ wrist for balance and yanks him down to his level. despite his best efforts, pickles can feel himself smiling against charles’ lips, he’s too happy to have charles here, alive and tangible, smelling of fine alcohol and working fingers through his dreads, and definitely smiling a bit back at him. he’s pushing charles further back onto the desk when charles stiffens suddenly and pulls away, frowning. “hey, you gonna leave me hangin’?” pickles laughs softly, but charles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“i need you to leave.” 

“i—what?” pickles isn’t smiling anymore. “why?” 

“please. just leave,” charles is almost whispering.

“hey, what did i do?” pickles ducks down trying to make eye contact, and charles winces and shakes his head. pickles backs away from the desk. “come on, tell me! you’re actin’ like a fuckin’ weirdo again!” but charles has already returned to his customary, business-like demeanor.

“i won’t ask again, pickles. please go.”

pickles glares at him. “wouldn’ta figured comin’ back from the dead would make you even more of a robot,” he says coldly. charles bristles and snaps, “look at your arm.” pickles looks down and swallows, eyes widening; there’s an enormous black and purple bruise wrapped around his wrist, in the shape of a handprint. 

“i—did you—“ pickles stutters. 

“please,” says charles very quietly. “go.” pickles doesn’t want to leave, he has too many unanswered questions, but he’s frightened of what’ll happen if he doesn’t do as charles says, so he slowly exits the room, casting a final concerned glance over his shoulder before he leaves. charles is rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighing.

pickles walks quickly back to his room, suddenly finding the shadows cast by the hallway lamps very strange and discomfiting. he locks the heavy door behind him and crawls into bed, trying not to look at the mark on his arm that he would swear was moving if it he didn’t know it was a trick of the light.

 

the bruise is gone in the morning. pickles sighs, reaching for a cigarette, and supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. he can’t remember the last time he slept straight through a night, and his alarm tells him he’s been out cold for at least ten hours. he feels like he must have had a strange dream, but he can’t remember any details.

he hauls himself to the kitchen and pokes around for something greasy to calm his churning stomach. he emerges from the pantry and visibly starts at the sight of nathan sitting at the table. nathan gives him a strange look.

“you look like shit, dude.” he comments suspiciously. “like, more than usual.”

“i feel like shit,” pickles mutters, flopping down across from him with a lunchable.

“eat lunch,” nathan suggests. pickles flicks at the plasticky cheese and rolls his eyes. yes, jean-pierre, the i-kissed-my-manager appetizer plate, please. perhaps an entrée of charles-is-apparently-some-kind-of-fucking-monster.

“okay, whatever it is, uh. get it figured out. you’re really fuckin’ bumming me out right now.” nathan pauses. “not in a good way.”

pickles stares at the freckled skin on his forearm. he knows he didn’t imagine that handprint. charles’ handprint.  
“i think i gotta go talk to ofdensen,” he mumbles, feeling even more ill as he shuffles slowly away from nathan’s raised eyebrows into the corridor.

there are a number of thoughts running through his head as he approaches charles’ office, chief among them, fuck. why do you care how freaky he is when you’ve summoned a fucking lake troll, fuck, he’ll tear you in half just like damien cornickelson, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck what if he’s dead, what if you left him and he just—

the door’s still open. has he even gone to bed? pickles steps in without knocking and finds charles pacing the room with a scowl and a handful of documents. 

“hey,” pickles says very quietly. 

“what are you doing here?” charles demands impatiently. 

“i want you to tell me what the hell happened to you,” pickles says, trying to sound firm. charles waves him away and snaps, “i already told you, everything’s fine—” but his shoulders seize up and he hunches over, looking pained. he leans with one hand on his desk and looks up.

“pickles.”

“don’t."

“get out.”

“no!”

“now, pickles,” charles barks, and there’s panic in his voice. he looks like he’s about to fall over and pickles tries to grab his elbows to hold him steady, but charles hurls him to the ground. pickles recovers in time to see an angular shadow snap out for a split second from charles’ torso. it cracks through the air where pickles had been standing and shatters a glass case on the opposite wall before recoiling like a spring and slamming into charles.

he falls to his knees and tries to say something but it’s lost in an impossibly low, whistling growl that tears from his throat. he’s trying to gesture at pickles to leave but he’s trembling and somehow his hand keeps reappearing rooted to the carpet instead of waving at the door. there’s a roaring in pickles’ ears, here and there a deafening whisper that he doesn’t understand. his entire body is vibrating and he’s not sure he can stand, so he crawls to charles and tries to hold him still. his hands grasp air when they reach for charles’ shoulders, and meet resistance, sharp needly points, where there is empty space. 

“c’mon, chief,” he whispers hoarsely. charles coughs and there’s thick, inky smoke dripping from his chin and beneath his scalp, and pickles for the life of him cannot find purchase on a single part of charles’ body, feeling around and slicing his fingers bloody on thin air. finally charles reaches out and clutches desperately at pickles’ hand, folding their fingers together and squeezing so hard that it hurts. an acrid darkness is surrounding them, pickles can’t see, can’t think with all the noise, so he ducks his head and leans against charles, closing his eyes and whispering charles’ name.

the cacophony in his head swells and then suddenly falls away. there’s several seconds of utter silence before the ambient noise of mordhaus fades into earshot. the air is clear again. he looks down and charles is curled in a ball on his side, gasping and sobbing and clinging to the stone floor. pickles releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding and carefully extricates his fingers from charles’, turning him over to face the ceiling. 

charles is choking out apologies through his tears and trying to keep his eyes open (the room seems too bright for him). he grabs at pickles’ hands again and pickles allows him to hold on like a drowning man for several minutes while his breathing steadies. pickles’ own heart takes a good deal of time to stop pounding, especially when charles is babbling in whispers about how he can’t help it, can’t control it, doesn’t know what sets it off. doesn’t know what’s inside him. better for pickles to keep his distance. pickles very gently kisses his forehead.

“fuck off,” he says. “i’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
